


who you really are

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Heteronormativity, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, No Romance, Sherlock Plays the Violin, So Does Eurus, Stradivarius, Violins, fix-it? what is there to fix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9381122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: The first time Eurus escapes, Mycroft issues a nationwide search.---Or, what happens after The Final Problem.





	

**Author's Note:**

> What killed me in TFP:
> 
> Lestrade series 1: "Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're lucky, he might even be a good one."  
> Lestrade series 4: "He's a good one."
> 
> MH: This is a private matter.  
> SH: John stays.  
> MH: This is family!  
> SH: That's why he stays!

The first time Eurus escapes, Mycroft issues a nationwide search. The same thing happens the second, third, and fourth time. Each time, she is eventually found at 221B Baker Street, playing the violin with Sherlock.

John only finds out the third time, when he returns to the flat only to find the woman who attempted to kill him on several occasions playing a duet with her brother and his flatmate of their own making. John stares. Eurus and Sherlock both spot him, but they don't stop playing – if anything, the volume of the music is increased. John sighs. God, he thought it was loud enough back when there was only one of them, but to have another violinist of a Holmes… He thanked his lucky stars that Mycroft was neither musically inclined nor likely to drop by their flat without invitation, after the way they treated him here the last time. At least one good thing came out of this mess. (John didn't have anything against Mycroft, but the man had made some major mistakes during his life, ones that made John's own life seem downright spotless at times; besides, even if he hadn't, his tendency to use government resources to keep track of his family – which John seemed to have been adopted into – borders on creepy.)

Speaking of a mess, John contemplates calling Mycroft, but eventually decides against it for several reasons, the first of which is that Sherlock seems _happy_ for a change. Also, Sherlock hasn't called Mycroft yet, which means that he must want Eurus there, and really, as long as Eurus is not in a murderous mindset, she was more than welcome to stay and indulge in the musical therapy – who knows, maybe playing the violin would be good for both of the Holmes siblings. Besides, if Mycroft had bothered to check the cameras he regularly installs in their flat (and which Sherlock takes great pleasure in removing), or even the cameras outside, really, he would have known where his sister is.

John sets about making tea in the somewhat more quiet kitchen, avoiding the kettle with the blood as well as the bloody kettle. He makes the usual tea for himself and for Sherlock, and after drawing on his assessment of Eurus' character as well as his experience with her in the past, deems her to be a black tea type of person. He is no world-renowned detective, but he quite prides himself on his skill of being able to judge the tea tastes of a person with frightening accuracy. This is a skill that has a very limited use, but when it _does_ come to use, it is a hit.

He sets the tea on the kitchen table, then steps back into the living room, only for his ears to once again be assaulted by the sound of two violins playing, for the most part, in tandem. He is thankful that Rosie is with Molly, because a baby would not be able to stomach this, no matter how beautiful it may sound once one becomes used to it.

Knowing that Sherlock knows sign language and hoping that Eurus does – the woman speaks _Latin_ , John would be dearly surprised if she doesn't know BSL – he silently signs that tea is waiting for them in the kitchen and that they'd better drink it. Sherlock nods, and, though Eurus does not acknowledge him, she does look in the direction of the kitchen with interest, which John counts as a success.

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At the end of the day, an exhausted Mycroft drops by, ready to rant about Eurus, only to find her scrunching her nose at the vegetables on her plate. John does try to create balanced meals when he can – God knows nobody else in this flat will bother with actual food, let alone staying healthy – and so today is vegetarian day. He says as much to Eurus when she makes another dissatisfied face at the food. He then informs her that, optimistically, Wednesday is pasta day, Friday is meat day, Saturday is fish day, Sunday is take-out, Monday is soup day, and Tuesday is clean-the-fridge day, expecting that she will commit this to memory and show up on  days when she likes the food.

Sherlock looks surprised that there is a special food schedule and inquires when this was created. Rosie wants more carrots. John indulges one of them.

When Mycroft does show up, John offers him a plate with a smile. He had been about to make three portions when he had been told, by both Sherlock and Eurus, that Mycroft will pay them a visit. Sherlock then added whether John could mix some Bree cheese into the salad, since Mycroft is allergic to Bree. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's antics, ignoring him with practiced ease.

Mycroft stands there for another few seconds until Sherlock makes a biting comment on about how Mycroft should sit down and eat since John went to all the effort to save him some of the food, and really, he should eat more healthily, and has he been gaining weight recently? Mycroft looks like he is about to retort sharply, but two things stop him: the fact that Eurus is smiling at Sherlock, and the knowledge that, should he insult Sherlock, Eurus' mood would sour. He settles for eating the salad with much the same enthusiasm Eurus was displaying only a few minutes before.

At the end of the dinner, Mycroft rises and says that he and Eurus should really get going, since _she should be in prison instead of eating Caesar salad in London_ (he might have glared at John and Sherlock while saying that).

Eurus' face goes blank, but John, who had become something of an expert on reading the Holmes family's emotions against their will, sees that she is disappointed, though also hopeful.

Once the two leave, John turns on Sherlock and demands to know how often this has been happening, since this is obviously not the first time. Sherlock blinks at him, going for the oblivious look of 'I have no idea what you just said'.

John isn't fooled, but he let the matter slide. For now.

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This goes on for a while. After the fifth breakout, Mycroft simply makes his way to Baker Street, brings his laptop with him, listens to his siblings play music, and helps John make dinner; John finds Mycroft's apparent cooking skills astounding, since, according to Lestrade, who had seen the inside of Mycroft's fridge for himself, the only thing Mycroft keeps in the vicinity of a fridge are take-out menus.

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Sometimes, Mycroft leaves right after dinner, coaxing Eurus to come with him. He still has about a dozen bodyguards stationed outside, in case Eurus tries to escape, but he hasn't ordered them in since Eurus' second escape.

Sometimes though, sometimes Mycroft stays for discussion. Just as he knows that Mycroft is unwilling to talk about Sherrinford, John positively itches to discuss it. He knows that there are many things that need to be said, and many things that need to be left unspoken, but settles on a simple, “I'm weirdly relieved that there's a line you won't cross.”

Mycroft blinks. He hasn't been expecting such a comparatively light comment. ”Of course,” he scoffs. “I'm hardly _Aaron Burr_ ,” he says the name as though he would a curse.

“Don't do that,” Sherlock says offhandedly, retuning his Stradivarius.

Mycroft frowns. “Do what?”

“Make references to pop culture,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It frightens Rosemary.”

“ _You_ are frightening Rosemary,” Mycroft retorts irritably. “And for your information, that was a history reference.”

“It was?” Sherlock busies himself with opening the fridge and removing the finger in the jar, eyes analyzing the finger, then putting it back in the fridge with a mumble. “How _mundane_.”

Mycroft scoffs. “Yes, Sherlock. Aaron Burr was one of America's more unscrupulous politician, which you knew very well, he said pointedly, before you erased it.”

“Well, then, it obviously wasn't important,” Sherlock shrugs. “And this Aaron Burr sounds just like your type of a politician.”

Mycroft crosses his arms petulantly. “You are being petty, brother dear.”

“ _Always_ , brother dear,” Sherlock smiles mockingly.

The men are silent for a moment. “I do wish you would stop mistreating your Stradivarius,” Mycroft finally says, tone scolding, as his eyes fall on the black bag thrown carelessly onto the floor next to the armchairs. “It is priceless.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Not true, since you managed to acquire it.”

“For _Eurus_ ,” Mycroft emphasizes.

“Who then gave it to me,” Sherlock replies. “Which makes it mine.”

“Gifts do not work this way.”

“They kind of do, actually,” John feels the need to point out.

“Mycroft, you're stealing my John,” Sherlock complains. “Go away.”

Mycroft is all too willing to oblige, though not without another backward glance at Sherlock.

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Mrs Hudson, with her unswerving instinct, begins to visit them whenever Eurus escapes. She brings tea and biscuits, and is unintimidated by Eurus. She doesn't fuss over Sherlock's sister like she does over Sherlock and John, but her attitude towards Eurus is much friendlier than the way she treats Mycroft.

John supposes that there is a significance in Mrs Hudson's feelings towards the Holmes siblings, but he is too deeply involved in their family drama as it is. He leaves the analyzing to Sherlock, and focuses on keeping his family safe and sound.

If that happens to include Eurus, so be it.

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Lestrade eventually finds out, because he inevitably always gets involved in everything happening in 221B Baker Street, one way or another. It does not take him as long as Sherlock predicted.

Predictably, Lestrade does not know what to make of the whole situation.

"Do you often have convicted criminals for dinner?" he remarks carefully, watching Sherlock play with his sister.

John shrugs. "It happens more often than you'd imagine," he says, thinking back on Moriarty, on Irene Adler, on Charles Augustus Magnussen — hell, even Mary or Sherlock himself. It probably says something about John that his best friend is an adrenaline junkie and his deceased wife was an international assassin (Sherlock would argue that, technically, Mary was not an assassin but a member of an infamous strike team for hire), but John is in no mood to administer a psychoanalysis on himself.

Lestrade narrows his eyes. "I see," he says in a tone that implies the opposite.

Well, Sherlock says once he and Eurus finish their piece – John would be lying if he had tried to claim that he does not know the notes by heart by now, despite his distinct lack of any sort of musical talent. Still, both of the Holmeses make it unique each time by changing the speed, the pressure of the strokes, the emotions behind them. If John has to compare this sort of communication with something, he would say that it's like saying the same sentence but emphasizing different words each time, except it seems to be more complicated than that, because with that one piece, despite its length, Sherlock manages to communicate with her sister, almost like they had built up an entire language based on one composition.

Eurus still does not talk verbally, but she does not need to; Sherlock seems to understand her anyway, even if no one else does. In a manner of speaking, Sherlock gets an understanding of his sister that had eluded even Mycroft for so long.

One night, after he returns from Sherrinford, Sherlock informs John that Eurus is reconstructing her entire mind to be able to function in a new way now that she has landed. Her state of mind, her very being, is being rewritten; John can't really blame her for not talking. He would not want to either, in her situation.

“What did you want?” Sherlock asks briskly.

Lestrade shrugs. “I had a case for you, but, as I can see, you're in no state to help me,” he says.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “Simply bring me photos of the evidence. I can trust you to be able to manage _that_ much on your own, can't I?”

It's a mark of how used Lestrade has become to Sherlock's antics that he doesn't even bristle anymore; he simply nods, then leaves with a generic goodbye.

Mycroft shows up just as Lestrade is leaving. He gives Lestrade a speculative look, which John only notices because he has to look away from Sherlock's face before Sherlock begins questioning John about his blatant staring, and _that_ is a can of worms John doesn't even begin to want to open. John wonders what the look was about, but files it away for later because Rosie smells like her diaper needs changing, and Sherlock has never liked that particular chore, leaving it up to John.

Later, Sherlock announces that they are going to be seeing much more of Lestrade.

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Sherlock's phone moans in the middle of dinner. Sherlock doesn't react. Lestrade blinks. Mycroft freezes. John rolls his eyes. "Pick up the phone and answer her, will you?" He says to Sherlock. She has been texting you nonstop for the past week."

Sherlock's face contorts into a sneer. "She has a tendency of being annoying."

What's her crime?" John persists. "Why are you giving her the cold shoulder?"

"She keeps issuing dinner invitation," Sherlock spits the word the way most people would say 'hellish punishment' or 'Comic Sans'.

John snorts. "So just go out with her."

Sherlock scowls. "What part of 'boring, not interested' remains unclear to you?"

John lets out an exasperated breath. "I'm just saying that it would be good for you to get some human interaction."

"Pfft," Sherlock snorts. "As if. Besides, I have _you_."

"I'm still not gay," John says desperately. "It's not the same thing."

"And I'm still not interested," Sherlock parries speedily. "Why must you always become upset whenever this subject is brought up? You know very well my inclinations on this matter."

"He feels the need to defend his heterosexuality," Mycroft mentions breezily.

"Are we not going to talk about the fact that Irene Adler is alive?" Lestrade sounds bewildered.

Sherlock groans. "Why does everyone want to talk about that?" he asks rhetorically. "John already knows—"

"Hey, don't get me involved in this—" John starts to protest.

"You started it," Sherlock retorts, "ergo you are already involved. Mycroft does not seem to be overly bothered by the fact. She is safe, and far away from here. That is all I know, and ask I frankly care about. Besides, it's not your problem."

"It concerns Mycroft," Lestrade says. "That makes it my problem."

"How sweet," Sherlock's voice is dripping with sarcasm.

John decides to intervene before the situation devolves into outright bloodshed. "Are you quite done?" He asks, wincing at his lack of tact. He spends far too much time around Sherlock. "Sorry."

"Don't worry," Lestrade stands up, dusting off his clothes. "I still have work tomorrow."

"And a date with my brother," Sherlock says to the room at large. Lestrade groans while Mycroft rolls his eyes. "I suggest the Chinese restaurant on Regent Street."

"Of course you would," Mycroft says exasperatedly.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock dismisses him. "Neither John nor I want you here. In fact, do feel free to avoid our flat in the future," the way he says 'our' makes John smile despite himself.

"Stop inviting Eurus, then," Mycroft responds.

"I don't invite Eurus," Sherlock repeats. "She invites herself."

“You don't discourage her," Mycroft points out.

"As a rule, I try not to discourage progress," Sherlock retorts. "Unlike you, may I add," Sherlock smiles mockingly.

"How about Lestrade confess instead?" John suggests irritatedly.

Sherlock tilts his head in consideration. "I would be amenable to that solution," he replies finally.

"Do I get a say in this?" Lestrade finally cuts in.

"No," three voices speak in unison.

Lestrade groans.

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Sherlock is right about Lestrade – of course he is.

“Where is Mycroft? We made dinner. Sorry we didn't make enough for you,” John winces.

Sherlock waves his hand. “Don't worry, John. Mycroft isn't coming tonight.”

“Then why–“ John gestures at the fourth dish.

He can almost feel Sherlock rolling his eyes at him, mumbling about his sheer stupidity. “The plate is for Lestrade, of course.”

“Of course,” John snorts. “Really, how could I have missed that obvious detail?”

“I keep telling you that you see but you do not observe, John,” Sherlock says, as though John had finally acknowledged Sherlock's criticism.

“Sarcasm, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grimaces. “When people talk to each other, they never say what they mean. It doesn't make sense.”

“No,” John says, then repeats the word, pointing a finger in Sherlock's direction. “No, you don't get to do this… this.”

“This?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Please specify.”

“This– thing!” John exclaims, gesturing at Sherlock. “This thing where you pretend that you don't do the thing even though I've seen you do the thing. I've heard you use sarcasm, Sherlock, numerous times.”

Lestrade glances between them, then at Eurus, who is currently sitting in Sherlock's armchair, staring at the skull in contemplation. Must be a Holmes thing, Lestrade reckons. He looks back at the two arguing tenants – John is glaring holes in the back of Sherlock's head, while Sherlock pretends to be oblivious to John's bad mood – and decides to simply sit down and eat his dinner since the chances for any semblance of normality are infinitesimal. He hums in appreciation, the fish positively melting in his mouth. He assumes that John made this, since Sherlock's cooking skills are limited to theoretical knowledge of complementary chemical compounds.

Eurus eventually joins him, having apparently arrived at the same conclusion; together, they observe Sherlock being chewed out by his best friend. Lestrade absentmindedly wonders when his life became _this_ , but he finds that he does not mind.

(Except the times when Sherlock throws a bowl of salmon at John because he deems John's argument to be lacking in logic. Objectively, Lestrade admits that John _does_ look good in pink.)

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Sherlock holds in a groan when his phone chimes with a new text. He tosses the knife haphazardly behind him, calculating quickly that it should land somewhere near the window. It does. He then snatches his phone and checks his messages.

_Why won't you have dinner with me?_

He does not know why he answers her. He convinces himself it is because he is bored – Lestrade has not visited him lately, which means that either the Scotland Yard has improved their methods, which Sherlock highly doubts (if they could have, they would have done it years ago), criminals have become even more stupid than usual, which Sherlock hopes isn't the case because where is the challenge in having a moronic opponent? – and not because he, on some level, misses the challenge she presents.

_Not hungry. – SH_

There. Concise, terse, and to the point. He goes to retrieve the knife with the intention of massacring the wall. He twirls it, careful not to cut himself, but he has been doing this since he was three. Mycroft taught him, and he taught him well.

The phone interrupts him again. His response time improves. _Everybody's hungry at some point,_ is Irene's persistent response.

_Not me. – SH_

He sends it, wishing that there was a way to convey annoyance.

“Are you texting The Woman again?” John's voice echoes in the kitchen, where he is, from the sound of it, trying to make room for anything edible in the fridge. Privately, Sherlock thinks that they need two separate fridges.

“She started it.”

“That's a yes in Sherlockian,” John says. Sherlock does not bother denying it. John's head appears in the kitchen doorway, along with Rosie. Rosie looks content in John's arms, now that cradles Rosie the way Sherlock showed him, so that she doesn't cry. Sherlock finds that it is not an entirely unpleasant sight.

There is nothing between Irene Adler and myself, Sherlock feels the need to elaborate.

John does not look convinced. “Sure,” he says. “If you say so.”

“Is there a reason why you don't believe me?” Sherlock asks because, really, he has known John for seven years – five if one did not account for the two after his fall – and yet John doubts that Sherlock is being truthful with him, even when he is the person who knows Sherlock the best. Honestly, _John Watson_. If Sherlock did not value John's company so much, he would have said a few choice words about John's intelligence.

John shrugs. “Just simple biology, Sherlock. You're human, and humans have certain needs.”

 _Certain needs._ There it is again. Just like in his head. _Experiences. Impulses._

“Why does everyone insist on that being basis for humanity?” Sherlock says before he can control his brain-to-mouth filter.

John looks at him with curiosity. “What do you mean?” he asks, and Sherlock is faced with a choice: if he doesn't want to sour their day even further with a fight, he should stop right there and listen to the little voice in his head that sounds like Mary, telling him to _shut up already, Sherlock, you're making a mess out of nothing._

He has never been one to follow sound advise. Case in point: Moriarty. Adler. Moriarty again. Charles Augustus Magnussen. Eurus.

“If that's your only basis for humanity, then dolphins qualify as well,” Sherlock goes on. “They have sex not only because of their reproductive needs, but also because they deem it pleasurable, because they deem it fun. Of course, dolphins also engage in group rape, so not sure whether that's a good– on second thoughts, they would be a perfect fit for humanity,” Sherlock changes his mind, ignoring John's slightly flushed face. “They have approximately the same IQ of an average human being.”

“Did you just compare us to dolphins?” John asks incredulously.

Sherlock nods. “You're right, that was inconsiderate of me. Dolphins deserve far better. Still, if romantic attraction is your requirement for being human, your argument is faulty.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John raises his voice, notices what he has done, and lowers it again because they have a silent agreement that Mrs Hudson does not need to hear their many spats. “You're being ridiculous. Just ask her out. Or accept her invitation,” he proposes.

Sherlock's face contorts into a grimace. “ _You_ are being ridiculous, John, and you're not listening to me. Let me make it so simple for you that even Anderson could understand: I don't want to date her. I don't want to date anyone, period. I'm just not interested. I've never understood people's fascination with romance and all that,” he waves his hand dismissively, “and I quite probably never will. And finally, in case you missed it during our interactions with her, Irene Adler is exclusively interested in women, and I've been told I do not qualify as the fairer gender.”

John does not know how to respond, so he settles on an, “You do have beautifully sharp cheekbones.”

“Are you satisfied with my explanation?” Sherlock asks with what he deems patience.

John rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time this week. “I suppose. I mean, I don't understand it, but–“

“You don't need to understand it,” Sherlock finishes.

“Exactly,” John says. Sherlock hears in his voice everything he does not want to say out loud – or maybe does not dare to.

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John should really not be surprised to come home just in time to see Irene Adler attempt to break into their flat with gusto. He coughs loudly; Irene hears it, turns around, then turns back to the door with a disappointed look on her face. Clearly, he isn't the man she is here to see. “I have a key, you know.”

She doesn't hesitate. “That would be cheating.”

“I'm sending you the bill for the replacement of the locks,” John informs her, “and a little bird told me that you've given up blackmailing, so I'm not sure you can afford it.”

That does give her pause. She turns to look at John with a calculating stare. “If I let you do this, you won't tell Sherlock?”

He shrugs. “No, but he will undoubtedly be able to deduce it for himself.”

She curses. “You're right,” she considers the situation for a moment, then lets him pass with a defeated sigh. “Fine. Open the bloody door.”

He obliges, and they both step into the flat. Once John manages to undo his jacket, he turns around to face her, only to see that she has taken up residence on the armchair. _His_ armchair.

 _So_ not cool.

He glares, and she looks up at him with disinterested eyes. “So I heard that you're alive,” he begins.

She smirks. “Sherlock must really value your inputs,” she snarks.

John scowls. “What are you doing here?”

She looks around innocently. “Currently? Stealing your chair.”

“Exactly. _My_ chair,” John emphasizes.

She rolls her eyes. “Don't make such a fuss about this. It's boring.”

“It's _my_ chair,” John reiterates. “Get out of it.”

She grins. “ _Make me_.”

John's eyebrows – both, because has has not yet perfected the art of raising only the one – shoot up into his hairline. “You must really be bored to be flirting with _me_.”

She tilts back her head. “What's the saying? Ah, yes. _'Beggars can't be choosers.'_ ”

He points a finger in her direction. “That's not true and you know it.”

“What's not true?” Sherlock says, breezing into the flat like a hurricane or chaos personified. “Oh, hello, Irene.”

Irene smirks. “Hello, _Sherlock_ ,” she all but purrs.

“That beggars can't be choosers,” John explains.

“That's an asinine proverb,” Sherlock declares, and John flashes a triumphant grin in Irene's direction. Sherlock walks into the kitchen and takes out the jar with the eyeballs. He looks at it, takes one eye out, puts everything else back in the fridge, then prepares some water. He drops the eye in the water and puts it to boil. He then walks back into the living room, spots Irene in the armchair, and scowls. “That's John's chair. Move,” he commands.

Irene does, albeit reluctantly. “You're no fun,” she pouts.

“No, thank you,” Sherlock replies almost habitually, as though there is a hidden message in the statement, meant only for Sherlock.

John marvels at how Sherlock can get Irene to move, whereas she ignores John with all her might. He decides that he really does not need to know.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asks once he is seated in his chair, John opposite him, with Irene on the couch.

Irene looks at the roof. “Would you believe me if I told you that I'm simply dropping by to say hello?” Sherlock shakes his head. She sighs. “I thought so,” she pauses for a moment, then continues. “I have angered some rather–“

The sound of boiling water reaches their ears. "Hold that thought," Sherlock interrupts Irene, standing up. He disappears into the kitchen. There is a fizzle and the sound of something being dropped into water.

Irene tries to peer into the kitchen, with little success considering her position. She finally gives up as looks at John, who, for his part, hasn't even glanced in the direction of the sounds. "What's he doing?" she asks.

John hums lightly. "Cooking an eye," he responds at length, enjoying the fact that he knows something about Sherlock that she doesn't. Take _that_ , Irene Adler.

She still looks bemused. "But why?"

John has to give her credit: she doesn't ask how Sherlock managed to acquire a set of eyes to boil, nor does she make any disgusted noises.

"I need to study the effect of extreme heat on certain human body parts," Sherlock's voice comes from right behind John, making John nearly jump in surprise. _Huh_ , he thinks. So Sherlock Holmes _can_ be subtle when he wants to.

Irene blinks. "Okay," she says. Just like that. She doesn't sound judgmental, simply curious. John begins to see why even Sherlock — maybe _especially_ Sherlock — finds Irene intriguing, even if he doesn't say it.

Not that John would attempt anything with her. For one, she is about as interested in John as in a newt. And even if she changes her mind, she is, in terms of danger, only one level below Eurus, and John has a functioning self-preservation instinct even if Sherlock doesn't.

"You were saying?" the man in question says, still standing behind John's chair. One of his hands grips John's shoulder, a gesture John finds oddly reassuring.

"Yes," Irene smiles, basking in the fact that she has Sherlock's undivided attention once again. "I have angered a few influential people, and now I need your help."

"With what?" Sherlock scoffs. "I'm sorry, but I am not an assassin."

Irene bites her lip. "Kinky, but no," Irene teases him, to which Sherlock looks away. "Essentially, I need you to help me fake my death again."

"What's this? Your third life?" Sherlock sounds vaguely disinterested now that the cause of Irene's visit is revealed. "You do realize that you're not a cat?"

"Fourth," Irene corrects him.

Sherlock raises a thin eyebrow. "Who—?"

"Nobody you need to concern yourself with," Irene grins at Sherlock. John waits to see if Sherlock takes the bait.

He doesn't. "Why come to me?" he asks.

Irene shrugs. "Because you already helped me once, and because you have experience in faking deaths."

John winces at the reminder. Sherlock's hand on his shoulder suddenly feels very heavy. "Did you have to bring it up?" Sherlock hisses.

Irene laughs. "Is John still not over it?" she mocks. "Don't worry, John, you'll get your boyfriend back in one piece," her tone isn't very reassuring.

John doesn't bother to correct Irene. Judging by the way Sherlock's hand tightens around John's shoulder, Sherlock doesn't miss it. John cannot be bothered to explain to Irene the nature of their relationship because he has done it far too many times already, and if people wrap their heads around any concept foreign to them – well, _too bad._

Sherlock finally acquiesces to Irene's request, but not before John manages to wheedle a promise out of him that he will come back unscathed. John knows Sherlock, and knows that he will keep his promise.

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Sherlock's parents stop by, because clearly, 221B Baker Street has become a fucking _hotel_. John doesn't mind the parents per se – rather, he minds what they represent: an intrusion on his private space, one which he cannot control.

Still, Mummy Holmes is a delightful person, and John cannot find it in himself to be irritated for long. She gets on with Mrs Hudson like a house on fire.

Father Holmes is a soft man. Smart, but certainly not smarter than his wife or his children. John absentmindedly wonders where the younger Holmeses got their intellect from, then adds it to his ever-evolving list of Mysteries Better Left Unsolved.

John ropes Mycroft into making dinner while Sherlock and Eurus play their concert. Mummy and Daddy Holmes seem enraptured with the sight of their two youngest cooperating as they haven't in years. John realizes that he's grinning as well.

All in all, a very successful evening. John especially enjoys the moment when Lestrade walks in, a case file in hand, then freezes as he realizes that Sherlock and John are entertaining guests (which was surprising enough), followed by becoming as still as Lot's wife when his brain catches up with his eyes and takes in the identity of the guests.

He makes as if to withdraw, but Sherlock, probably searching for an escape from the embarrassment that is the Holmes family dinner, spots him and beckons for him to come forward. That is how Gregory Lestrade finds himself presenting a seemingly impossible case to the Holmeses, only for Mycroft and Sherlock to bicker about it for seven minutes (John is taking time) while Eurus stares at the photos with a curiosity that borders on morbid.

Finally, Mummy Holmes looks up and says, “It's obvious that it was the gardner,” her voice cuts through Mycroft and Sherlock's squabbling, “so I really don't know why you're arguing about this.”

John supposes that this answers the question of where the Holmes siblings got their intelligence from.

Sherlock shoots Mycroft a smug smirk, only to be properly chastised by his mother.

Lestrade's eyes are wide as he looks at Mummy Holmes with a new light. He thanks her profusely, then hurries out. He returns a minute later, smiling sheepishly as he retrieves the folder. Eurus looks dismayed that her photos are being snatched. John decides that it is time to break out the alcohol, if only for the sake of his sanity.

**

Eurus writes poetry, John discovers one day. Correction, _Rosie_ discovers, having crawled to Eurus the moment John set her on the floor to take off his coat. By the time he looks up (or rather, _down_ ) again, his daughter is sitting by Eurus, who looks partially like she'd nothing rather than to toss Rosie out of the window, and partially terrified out of her wits, like she has been approached by a venomous snake ready to strike.

Which is ridiculous, John reflects, since, if either of the duo had to be a venomous serpent, it would obviously be Eurus, with her penchant for murder and mayhem; also, no snake would dare attack Eurus Holmes for fear of retaliation. (This observation is, sadly, based on real-life experience from several weeks ago, when Sherlock had brought home a snake with the intention to dissect it. Eurus had thought it would be funny to let it out of the container Sherlock procured for it. Rather than attack her, the snake had, once it had gotten a good, long look at Eurus, slithered off and hid under the couch, where it remained until Sherlock could coax it to come out. John had never seen a snake behave so submissively.)

He is getting off-topic. Eurus writes poetry. Only, not in a conventional sense. She uses her own language, her own alphabet, that looks like the hand writing them wanted to do everything just a little too fast and the body wasn't keeping up with the mind. Yet, this seems to have some meaning to Sherlock, because his next rendition of their song sounds more cheerful, almost encouraging. Before Sherrinford, John hadn't even begun to suspect that Sherlock could be encouraging in a non-insulting way; it just goes to show how much there is to the character of Sherlock Holmes that he does not reveal to anyone.

When Lestrade shows up at the end of the day, sent by Mycroft to retrieve Eurus because really, _fun is fun but she needs to go back,_ Mycroft argued one day, the entire living room looks like it has been attacked by the paper monster (coincidentally, also Rosie's new bedtime story as told by Sherlock – John thinks it's creepy but she falls asleep quicker than to any other story, so he'll settle). More important, however, is the fact that it is _quiet_. A blissful silence permeates the room.

Lestrade blinks, having undoubtedly expected roaring music to greet him, as it had the last seven times he had come for Eurus (Mycroft must be getting lazy, as Sherlock never fails to gleefully point out). He looks around with an adorable look of bemusement on his face, spots Eurus on the floor, pen in hand, writing so fast that the words occasionally turn into straight lines or simple blobs. He blinks again, because this kind of situation deserves a repeated blink.

“Er, John…?” he asks carefully. These days, he is nothing but careful when dealing with the younger Holmeses – and, by extension, John. John is dismayed to realize that he misses Lestrade's sass.

“Yeah?” he busies himself with trying to feed Rosie. Lestrade briefly wonders why he doesn't do it in the kitchen, then hears bustling in said room, and the question freezes on his lips. Sherlock is experimenting again. Of course. (He vaguely hopes that the kettle is not beyond salvation. John can make delicious tea in it, as long as it doesn't contain various body parts.) “No, Rosie, don't spit it out, you _need_ to–“

Sherlock breezes past Lestrade and takes Rosie out of John's grasp in one swift move, grabbing the bottle with his free hand one he manages to get Rosie in a safe grip. “John, she doesn't like to drink it that way. You know that, I know that, even _Lestrade_ knows that,” Sherlock shoots Lestrade a critical look, as though already doubting his statement, then refocuses on John. “You're forcing her. It's never going to work. Here, this is how she likes it.”

Sherlock then does some adjusting that John will later claim is wizardry and tricks, and offers Rosie the bottle. She obligingly drinks the milk.

John gapes. Lestrade snickers. “John, I think your daughter likes Sherlock more than you.”

John rolls his eyes. “He seems to have that effect on people lately. Now, are you here about Eurus?”

Lestrade scoffs. “No, it's about the _other_ prisoner escapee you're harbouring.”

“You are being daft if you think that we could force her out,” Sherlock says coldly to Lestrade. A smile curled his lips as he looked at Rosie. “Yes, you are doing wonderfully. Aren't you great? You're already smarter than most people on the police force, yes, you are,” he continues with a taunting smile clearly intended for Lestrade.

Lestrade does not rise to the bait. “I need to get Eurus.”

“I don't care what you need,” Sherlock says firmly. “She has found a new mode of communicating, and if you want to take that away from her, you will have to get through me. And, since I hold Rosie, I have sway over John as well, and, as I have found out through experience, you do not want to be punched by John Watson.”

Lestrade lets out an annoyed breath. “Don't you think that you're being a little dramatic here, Sherlock?”

“I don't think you understand, Lestrade,” Sherlock says calmly. “Very well. I will explain this to you in terms even you can understand: you will be setting her back weeks, if not _months_ , in her progress.”

“Progress to what?” Lestrade snorts lightly. “To becoming a psychopath again? Another murdering spree?”

The sound of a violin breaks the silence. All three men turn their heads sharply in the direction of the sound, but nothing else is forthcoming. Sherlock then looks back at Lestrade, his eyes blazing. “Don't insult my sister in my home, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he says lowly. “You know what I am capable of,” his voice takes on a defensive tone.

Lestrade raises his hands in surrender. “I was simply making a joke.”

“A joke I do not appreciate. Be assured that Eurus will return to Sherrinford as soon as she is done with her art,” Sherlock continues. “Until such a time, she will be under our supervision.”

“That's what worries me,” Lestrade mutters under his breath but relents. He nods in acquiescence. “Okay. I'll hold you to your word, Sherlock Holmes.”

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Eurus does return to Sherrinford the next day. Sherlock thinks that she looks a little more full of life, her spirit a little brighter.

He spends the next hour playing the violin with her, letting his mind wander.

_It's not the fall that kills you,_ Moriarty taunted him a few months ago,  _it's the landing._

Thinking back on Eurus, the sister he had not even remembered, he has to admit that Moriarty – or rather, _himself_ , since the Moriarty who said it was nothing but an embodiment of his own mind – was right.

But Eurus managed it, with Sherlock's help, and together, they will manage everything else.

Eurus changes the melody, and Sherlock is all too happy to follow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like just because there wasn't any actual romantic Johnlock, people are missing Sherlock and John's obvious bond. Or, in the words of my friend, the level of platonic Johnlock in these last two episodes was more than I ever dared hoping for.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The title is an allusion to the song Sherlock and Eurus are playing at the end. That's the song they are playing throughout this fic.


End file.
